Johanna's Games
by im-stuck-in-a-fairytale
Summary: The first in "The Johanna Trilogy".  When Johanna Mason is selected for the Hunger Games, she decides very quickly on one thing: To stay alive at all costs. However, the shock outcome of the reaping ensure that it is not just Johanna's life at stake.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all :) this is my first attempt at a Hunger Games fic... whether I fly or fall is up to you guys, really!  
><strong>**First off, nothing is mine. Except a few characters I shoved in, everything is the creation of Suzanne Collins. To save me the trouble of having to insert this at every chapter, because I always forget, I'm going to leave you with the sense you were born with to remember that I did it here.**

**Now that's out of the way, let me start with my inspiration (if you don't care, or ae so anxious to read- well, anything's possible-, feel free to skip this part.)**  
><strong>First off, Johanna Mason was my favourite character in the books. Maybe it was her charming personality (sarcasm, in case you couldn't tell). I don't know why, but I was drawn to Johanna, Haymitch, and Gale, until Mockingjay, where I wanted to stab him in the gut (wow... I scared myself a bit, there. But seriously, he was a horrible character in the latter part of Mockingjay). I was also curious about life in District Seven... we know Johanna is good with an axe, and yet most other seven tributes die pretty early on in the games. Suspicious. So, I wrote it trying to explain that.<strong>

**For now, I'm calling this the "Johanna Trilogy". It probably won't be a trilogy. I'll finish this, and if you guys want a continuation, then you shall have one.**

**Review, Favourite, Alert. If you dislike it, at least let me know why, so I can grow as a writer.**

**Thank you!  
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><p>I stand at The Cornucopia, axe clutched in my hand. Blood gushes from a wound on my forehead, mingling with the sweat pouring from me.<p>

"Where are you?" I growl. All that's left now is me and him, the District 2 tribute. My heart hammers against my ribcage, playing tunes I've never before heard. Surely he could hear me? I slow my breathing, close my eyes, and bring my axe up, sensing out my enemy. I release the axe, blindly, hear it swish through the air. A scream of anguish informs me I've met my target. I open my eyes, and he's stood before me, his arm attached only by sinew, the axe still embedded in his shoulder. He lunges at me with his sword. I dodge, and, in one movement, remove the arm and retrieve my axe. He looks in disbelief at the severed limb on the ground, and I take advantage of this by swirling my axe around again and bringing it down on his other shoulder, removing that arm too. He sinks to his knees.  
>"Please," he gasps "please..." his words are choked by his pain.<br>"Sorry," I bury the axe in his face; feel the crunch of metal on skull. "There can only be one winner."

The canons blast as his heart stops, drowning out my last words, then, Caesar Flickerman's voice:  
>"Johanna Mason is the winner of the annual 70th Hunger Games"<p>

"Johanna?" I'm roused from my slumber by Slam, my older brother. "C'mon, Johanna. Time to wake up." I roll over, shaking my long hair over my shoulder. Wow. Funny what an impending reaping day can do to your head.  
>"Is it time yet?" I ask, quietly, yawning.<br>"You wish, lazy," he sniggers.  
>"I'm not lazy," I protest.<br>"yeah, yeah" Slam rolls his eyes. "If you get reaped today, you better hope nobody sneaks up on you in the morning, you'd be a goner for sure."

There is a heavy pause. "Sorry," Slam grunted. "That wasn't funny. We need to go out to work a bit, before. Get dressed."  
>I nod, slide out of bed, and begin to undress. Slam saunters off. As the age gap is so small between us, we've grown up close. We're all we have, after all. We're one and the same, Slam and I.<br>After our father ran off with the mayor's daughter when I was three, and mom remarried, we were left to our own devices, being put to work planting saplings at the age of four to keep us out of the way of our mother, who focussed all her energies into the reproduction of four more children. In District Seven, the only excuse for not working is pregnancy, infancy, or being in your deathbed, something my mother has used to her advantage. It's why many in our district breed young. Many of the girls in my class are pregnant or already mothers and do anything to avoid the mandatory labour that comes with being born in our district. But I'm not like other girls. I'm very much involved with the man's work around here, swinging the axes to bring down even the mightiest of trees. Women here typically work in less strenuous areas, planting, and cultivating the growth of new trees, something I was bored of at the age of nine. Perhaps that's why we've only ever had one female victor. I'm sure more would have survived if they'd been taught to wield an actual weapon.

"Are you coming, half-wit?" Slam yells from outside the one-room log cabin we share. I hurry to exit, slamming the door behind me.  
>"Seriously, do you have to be so impatient?" I say.<br>"Do you have to be so ugly?" he hits back, and we both break into peals of laughter. That's how Slam and I work. We can bicker until the cows come home, but we both know it's all in jest. Nothing comes between us.

After a few hours hacking at branches, I find myself sitting high in a tree-top. Leaning back to wipe sweat from my brow, my keen eyes see a hare crouched in the grass. I nudge Slam, stood on the ground waiting to catch the branch I'm working on, with my toes and nod in its direction. He raises an eyebrow in approval. I aim my hatchet, the small and light one I was using to cut through the branch, which is one of the thinnest in the tree. I release it and it flies, almost noiselessly, through the air, slicing the hare's head clean off before he even sees it coming.  
>"Nice," Slam said, going to retrieve the hare carcass, and my hatchet. He cleans the blood from the shiny blade, and looks up at me. I slide out of the tree, and take the carcass and hatchet out of his hands, getting blood on my tunic. "C'mon, let's get this to Mom."<p>

Our mother, Jocelyn, lives in the town, on the outskirts of the forest. Slam and I have lived alone in our log cabin since he was fourteen. It suits us better, that way. Being around screaming, puking, dirty infants sets my teeth on edge, and Slam hated it, too. Our four half-siblings range in age between twelve and two, but my mother still doesn't "work" as such. She runs a sort of babysitting service, where all the parents of Seven can leave children too young to be put at work. I suppose it's better. When I was younger, before she fell pregnant with Lawrence, the child after me, she hated working, it made her so surly and miserable. Maybe that's why I've always been such a disappointment. If I was a boy, she would have been allowed more time off to nurse me. Boys traditionally gain you more maternity leave, as the Powers That Be in Seven want a strong, healthy population.

We arrive at her hut, and Slam knocks on the door. It swings open immediately, and a small, dark-haired child, our six-year-old sister, Amelia, looks at me.  
>"Hey," Slam smiles at her. She grins tentatively back, before screaming over her shoulder in the shrill, deafening tones that small children love: "MOM! Slam and Johanna are here".<br>Our mother appears at the doorway. We look a lot alike: Long, chestnut hair, small frame, and wide, brown eyes, hers half-closed and red-looking. She's been at the Corsand seed again. Corsand seed is unique to Seven, and, in small doses, send you in to a peaceful night's sleep. Large amounts, however, slow your heartbeat right down, so it's undetectable, and put you into a deep, deep trance. It's easy to get hooked on it, a prime example being our mother.  
>She ignores me, and goes straight to fussing over Slam.<br>"Darling, it's your last reaping, if you can get through this…"  
>"I know, I know, I'll never have to do it again." He says, trying to play down the fuss. He glances at me, and I roll my eyes.<br>"Look what I brought," I say, thrusting the hare carcass unceremoniously in her face. She wrinkles her button nose, but takes the hare from me, and carries it outside. When she leaves, Slam shoots me a reproachful look.  
>"You don't help yourself, you know."<br>"Easy for you to say, she likes you." I say, quietly. Slam just shakes his head, as if he knows better, and turns away.

After an uncomfortable hour of being not acknowledged, it was decided by Slam that we should start making our way towards the town centre, where the reaping would be taking place. Our half-brother, Lawrence, accompanied us. It was his first reaping. I mean, Slam and I have been taking tesserae for years now, so his name is only in there once, but still, it's nerve racking. He won't be picked, I turn from him. I doubt I'll even be picked, and my name is in there… 36 times now. Slam is even worse off then I am, with 47 to his name. Anyway, we all assemble in the city square, and I say my goodbyes to Slam, even nod and pat Lawrence on the shoulder, before flitting off on my own. I take my place in line next to a girl who's name I can't recall, who I used to sit by in school when I bothered going, clutching her pregnant belly. One thing I forgot to mention: in Seven, they like to keep the population as high as they can, so they encourage you to have children young. As well as giving you time off for each child, they also give you a year's worth of household supplies, and, if you aren't married and reproducing by your last reaping, they arrange a marriage for you. That's why Slam is so nervous about today. If he's not taken, he will be married to someone he barely knows. That's what awaits him, for the rest of his life.  
>"Settle down, quiet!" barks the formidable-looking man, Julius Skylark, who reaps the tributes and takes them to the capital every year. He is the epitome of capital expenditure. The man has wings implanted into his back, for god's sake.<br>"Welcome to the 70th Hunger Games annual reaping, may the odds be ever in your favour," he frowns, as though he would rather not be here. You and me both, Julius. I think back to my forest, a tactic I have employed over the years. If my mind is there, the reaping goes that little bit faster.

I'm barely listening when Julius pulls out a crumpled bit of paper, and begins to read.  
>"The female tribute for district Seven is… Johanna Mason."<p>

I'm only conscious of it when every eye in the town centre turns to me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to all who favourited/alerted, and the one who gave me a review :D It's much appreciated. I would like at least a review per chapter, so as son as somebody does, I shall update.**

**This chapters a funny one. It drags a lot. I don't like it much myself, to be honest. Just setting the scene, establishing characters that you will hopefully come to love. Especially Thorn and Slam.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>I do something then that I've never done before: Promptly burst into tears.<p>

Seriously. I haven't cried since I don't remember when. But the minute Julius called my name, I burst into noisy, ugly tears. And, like a tree in the forest, I stayed rooted to the spot.  
>"Well?" barks Julius. "Johanna Mason?"<br>Dozens of hands push my back, pull my arms, urging me forward. Anything to get themselves out of the games. If I was there, they were not. They're eager for me to go to my death. I cry harder, silently cursing myself. The whole of the Capitol can see me now- scratch that, the whole of Panem- can see what a coward I'm being.

Nice one, Johanna. Smooth.

With trembling legs, I mount the steps to the stage, and stand in front of my district, the alien wet stripes burning my face. I could see everyone roll their eyes, writing me off as another wimpy tribute that'll be slaughtered in the bloodbath. Perhaps they're right. I've made an easy target of myself now. Christie Briggs, the only other female winner, nods at me, tersely, sympathy in her eyes. It's that look, letting me know she's already written me off, that chokes me.  
>"Would you like to say a few words?" Julius asks. I shake my head, eyes wide. I don't think I could if I tried. Julius nods. "Very well. We shall select our male tribute."<p>

As he plunges his hand into the ball with the boy's names, I notice something I've never seen before: Julius Skylark's hands. Well, not hands. I've never seen hand less human. Scaly, with talons for nails. Hands like birds. Hands that could scratch my eye out with one swoop. I gulp. I was so transfixed by the flaking skin on his fingers, I forgot to hope for the boy whose name would be drawn.

"Our male tribute for District Seven," Julius partially shrieks. "Is…" he unfolds the paper, enjoying the tension mounting in the air. "Thorn Baxon".

Great. As if this day could not get any worse.

I've known Thorn Baxon all my life. Born to young parents, even by Seven's standards, his father was selected for the Games seventeen years ago, when Thorn was nine months old. Did well too, and was the last to die. His mother went insane from grief, and drowned herself. But Thorn is one of the happiest people I know. Always smiling. Over the years, he's been a good friend to both Slam and me.

I flash back to a wedding, two years ago, that I attended only out of politeness. Thorn, with his lazy chestnut curls, brown eyes that seem to dance when they look at you, high cheekbones, and well-muscled body, is considered to be one of the biggest catches of our district, along with my own brother. I remember being sat in the corner for the whole night, watching everyone. I'm not good in social situations. People don't, and never have, warmed to me. Slam says it's because I'm too blunt, too cold. I don't show my emotions often enough, he said. Clearly, he was wrong. I just burst into tears in front of them all, and look where that got me? They were still happy enough to chivvy me off to my murder.

Anyway, I was sat in the corner, brooding, when Thorn appeared out of the crowd.  
>"Miss Johanna," he bowed, jokily. "Looking beautiful, as ever."<br>I snorted. For the wedding, I was wearing an old dress my mother had forced me into, green velvet, that clung to my boyish figure, with gold embroidered leaves. I felt like the world's biggest idiot, but had worn it regardless, as my usual tunics don't cut it for weddings.  
>"I'm serious," Thorn smiled, taking my hand in his and pulling me up out of the chair "It's nice to see you dress like a young lady, for once,"<br>"I'll have you know, Mr. Baxon, that I can be perfectly ladylike, when it suits me", I imitate his archaic, jokey manner.  
>"Then you wouldn't mind giving me the honour of this dance?" Thorn shot back. I nodded, but felt nervous as he led me onto the dance floor. Several girls glared at me, with jealousy. Thorn drew me in close, and we began swaying on the spot.<p>

"Weddings are great," he smiled happily. I wrinkle my nose.  
>"Really? Just an excuse to have kids and get time off work, isn't it."<br>"No!" Thorn sounded shocked. "It's so much more than that! It's about two people coming together and sharing their love."  
>"Or finding somebody they don't mind being with, before they are forced to be with any old person."<br>"Ah, got me there," Thorn said, holding my hand above my head and spinning me around, slowly. "So, you wouldn't ever want to get married?"  
>"Not ever," I reply. "I just don't want to be forced into it…"<br>"It's something you'll have to face, Johanna," Thorn said, seriously.  
>"I know. It's just different for me."<br>"How?" Thorn asked, curiously.  
>"Well, look around you. Pretty much every girl here would love to be your wife. You don't have to be stuck with anyone, you can take your pick. I don't even have friends, let alone somebody who wants to be with me."<br>"Ah! You couldn't be more wrong, Miss Johanna." Thorn grinned.  
>"Sorry?"<br>"I don't have a choice. There is only one girl I could ever be with for the rest of my life. I can't take my pick, as there is only one I could ever pick. And not only do you have the best friend in the world," he flicked his hair out of his eyes in mock vanity. "But, he is also the exact same person who wants to be with you."

I ran from him then. He never brought up the subject again, and neither did I, but we never could revert back to the easy, close friendship we had. We'd been strained, stretched, our relationship like a branch, clinging on for almost dear life, but almost completely severed.

And, within a few days, we were going to have to kill each other, or let the other die. Fantastic. Brilliant. It can't get worse, it really can't.

Just as Thorn mounts the stage, a voice rings out, loud and clear, from the back of the town centre. A familiar voice, a voice I love more than any other.

"I volunteer as tribute!" Slam calls.

Note to self: Never say "it can't get worse" again. Because the world will always do it's very best to prove to you that actually, it can.


End file.
